


Quality of Life

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Immortality, Long-Term Relationship(s), Marriage, Mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 20:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Bruce isn't getting any younger and with his age, there are some difficult decisions to make. Should he give up the Batman mantle, as he promised Diana? Or is there a better solution to the question of his impending retirement? Bruce and Diana must struggle through the rocky ground of what their marriage brings.





	Quality of Life

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a stand-alone. One-shot scene with Bruce and Clark discussing a particularly nasty argument between the Bat and his wife. Ends with a good resolution.  
> I do not own DC or any of the characters. Only the story.  
> Enjoy!

I stare out the panoramic windows with eyes narrowed against the bright orb of sunlight that basks the main deck. Here, amidst stars and an abyss of black unknowns, my mind wanders the most frequently. My self-control and barriers are flagging.

  
And there is little to stop it from finding Diana.

  
She waits in my dreams for sleep to overcome me. She hides in my thoughts, secluded behind pain and memories that I want to bury forever. But she never leaves. She’s never far.

  
The sour taste of regret burns my tongue and I look away from the too bright light to see my hands fisted on the rail, fingers trembling.

  
I can feel Clark watching me and can picture the worry lining his face without having to look. Twenty years of friendship have a way of doing that. Of making words meaningless.

  
But he waits to speak until my head falls forward and I let it rest against the expanse of glass with exhaustion, a sigh breaking the seam of my lips.

  
“How long has it been?” the question is without judgement, but there is plenty of sympathy. Of so much feeling, it makes me feel itchy and irritated.

  
“Long enough.”

  
“Have you tried calling her?”

  
I tense at the softly spoken question, bile rushing up the back of my throat. “I didn’t think it prudent. I’m giving her space.”

  
“Maybe she doesn’t want it.”

  
I need time Bruce. I don’t want to see you for a while. Let me do this.

  
“No. She does.”

  
The words sound hollow and pain filled. There is no way for Clark to miss the devastation in what I don’t say. I don’t tell him that we fought harder than we ever have. That we screamed at each, hurtful, painful things we never should have given voice to. That when I was quite literally backed into a corner, I’d told her to get her fucking hands of me. That she’d recoiled from me as though my skin burned her, and I’d immediately wanted to take it back. I’d felt my throat go stiff with fear and tears, but I’d just stood there, watching the scene unfold as though I’d had no control.

  
But I don’t need to say those things. Because Clark knows. I called him when the aftermath settled, and I’d started to panic. I realized she was serious; that the bag she’d packed and left with, had been a reality, I should never have been faced with.

  
I could lose her. I could lose the woman I’ve loved for nearly all of my adult life. She could decide not to come back.

  
The first week, I was paralyzed with shock, fear, and heartbreak. The second, restless and then desolate. The third, brokenness began to rear its ugly head and I’d embarrassed myself by crying in front of Dick when he’d asked what was going on. And now, three weeks and four days into our separation, with no contact, I’m pulling apart at the seams. My stuffing is more than just showing, it’s leaking out the sides and spilling onto the floor, leaving bits of me everywhere I go.

  
And Clark knows, because he sees everything. Because he’s been with me even longer than Diana. Knows me, just as well, if not better.

  
“I don’t know what to do,” I say with a thin voice, lips pulled into a scowl to keep the tremble from showing.

  
“It would help if you told me more.”

  
“What is there to tell?” I snap angrily, face heating beneath the mask I suddenly wish were absent. It’s stifling. I feel like I can’t breathe. Sweat clings and bleeds down my frame and I catch myself against the glass when I sway into it involuntarily.

  
“Bruce?”

  
“What?” I growl, angry at the one person who is trying to help me.

  
There is a pause and I look over my shoulder to see Clark has joined me at the windows and is staring with a crease of a frown between his brows. His eyes scream concern…pity. I want to hit him for it. I don’t want to feel pathetic. But I’m fairly close to that word. That despicably weak word.

  
“Have you been eating? Sleeping?”

  
“What do you think?”

  
“You have to take care of yourself,” Clark chides, slipping into his parental voice, “What would Diana say if she saw you like this?”

  
“She’d—” I struggle to answer honestly, because her image clouds in my mind with hurt and anger, “She probably wouldn’t care anymore.”

  
Clark’s frown deepens, “I think that’s probably not true. Has she called you at all? Do you even know where she is?”

  
“No.”

  
“I’m sorry.”

  
I shove back from the glass, mildly pleased I don’t fall back into it, then turn on a booted heal and carefully take one of the two chairs already positioned by the control panels. According to ship rotations, I was assigned monitor duty with Clark weeks ago by my own hand. In many ways, I’m grateful that I’m not alone tonight. In others, not so much. Rehashing and feeling what I’ve been trying so hard to quash makes me feel more raw. Makes my chest ache and the wounds seep.

  
They won’t heal.

  
I won’t survive losing her.

  
“Bruce.”

  
I look up at Clark, staring through him before focusing on his face, “Yes?”

  
“Tell me what happened.”

  
“We fought. I told you that. It was ugly.”

  
“But you’ve had fights before and Diana has never just decided to leave. Without calling or telling you where she was going.”

  
“I know.”

  
“Then?”

  
“It’s personal.”

  
Clark laughs, but it’s humorless and bordering on impatient. “We don’t usually care about those sorts of lines, do we? I grew up with you. I know who you are. Tell me.”

  
I feel my teeth grind and my jaw aches from the constant pressure of clenching it. I haven’t slept well in days, struggling to find an equilibrium I know won’t come. I’ve been wracked with nightmares and the increasing urge to seek Diana out, no matter the consequences. I’d be hard pressed not to end up on my knees, begging for her to come home at this point.

  
“It was about a lot of things.”

  
“OK.”

  
Clark waits, giving me the freedom to look out, rather than at him. I find sharing emotionally challenging things a struggle under the best circumstances. Now, it feels particularly strained as my throat wants to close. So, I close my eyes and picture Diana’s face that night when she’d waited up for me to come back from patrol. I’d been late, but I hadn’t called.

  
She’d been angry with me before I’d even gotten in the door.

  
I’d been nursing a broken rib, sprained knee, and no sleep. I hadn’t wanted to deal with the guilt trip about calling and being considerate. Or to feel poorly that I’d been avoiding talking to her since she’d brought it up again. God, even revisiting the sensation just before the fight, knowing I was being an asshole makes the fire in my chest unbearable and I press a hand to it.

  
“I was tired. She was mad I didn’t call.”

  
“You were home late. Lost track of time.”

  
“Something like that. It happens a lot. She knows that. So, I was feeling prickly already and I was nursing a few wounds. It was a bad time to bring up something I didn’t want to talk about.”

  
“Bring up what?”

  
I look sharply over a shoulder and see Clark on the edge of his seat, both hands slung between his knees. “She wants me to retire.”

  
“Oh,” Clark says softly, eyes flickering over my face, “I see.”

  
“Yeah,” my throat is so tight that my next words come out hoarse, “I’ve been hiding from her. Trying to avoid the conversation while knowing full well that she wanted to talk about it. And we did talk about it, quite a few years ago, that I would retire as Batman when it became too much.”

  
“Has it?” Clark’s voice is hard to read, “Become too much?”

  
I shrug a shoulder, “Yes. If I’m being honest, yes. I’m fifty-five. I may not look it, but inside, I’m wearing enough bolts and screws I could be called tin man. Dick and Damian can handle Gotham now. Even Jason has been pitching in when needed. Tim, he never wanted to do Robin forever, but he can step in when needed.”

  
“But you don’t want to leave it. Not really.”

  
I shake my head, “No. Not really.”

  
“And she does.”

  
“Do you blame her?” I choke out, “One bad night, and it could spell the end for me. I could die.”

  
“That’s always been a possibility.”

  
“Now more than ever.”

  
“And?”

  
I shift in my seat, “And she gave me a choice. Years ago. We talked about whether I would live out my years as a human, no magic, no gifts and then retire as Batman. Or, if I would accept her help in finding immortality.”

  
“I never knew you’d considered it.”

  
“Of course, I did,” I growl, “I married an immortal. You think it didn’t cross my mind that I would die long before her? That I would never be able to keep up with her after only a smattering of years—that I’d have to give everything up while she still ran off to save the day?”

  
Clark’s eyes soften, mouth working into an unfamiliar grimace, “I’m sorry. Most days, I try not to think about it. Most everyone I know will likely die before me.”  
“I made a choice.”

  
“To retire. To die naturally.”

  
I nod weakly, head swimming and too light. I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast and lunch. I should have at least accepted the granola bar that Alfred had tried to pawn off on me before leaving. “But I—I don’t know who I am without Gotham.”

  
“Oh Bruce,” Clark sighs, “You’re still you.”

  
“Am I?” I ask quietly, “I’ve been Batman for over thirty years. I don’t know anything different. Essentially, I’ve been living as three different people. Myself, Bruce Wayne, and Batman. I don’t know how to get rid of an entire personality. And what if I don’t like myself? What if I can’t live without it?”

  
“You’ve given your life to them. You don’t owe them any more.”

  
“It’s not about that. It stopped being about that a long time ago.”

  
“Have you told Diana how you feel?”

  
I bite my lip, nodding, “In a way. I didn’t—I didn’t do it well. I was tired. And angry. It was a bad time.”

  
Clark tips his head, eyes narrowing, “Did something else happen?”

  
I stare at him a moment, wondering if I can even say it without feeling humiliated. Swallowing, I decide I’m in too deep and don’t care. It wasn’t that big of a deal. Not really. Even if at the moment, it had felt like it was.

  
“When it got really heated and we were screaming, well, more she was. You know I tend to just glare. She--,” I look up, “She pushed me. A little push. Nothing too big. But it knocked me into the wall and something snapped in me. I just—I started screaming at her about never putting her hands on me again. I called her names. And she just stared at me in shock, her eyes wide and hurt. And I didn’t care. Not in the moment. I was too hurt in the moment. I could feel the bruises forming on my arms and all I wanted to do was make her feel the same.”

  
Clark is silent a moment, face stoic, “That’s difficult.”

  
I nod, “It was. Especially when she packed a bag, told me she needed space and that we needed time and then left. I hardly had time to reconcile how out of hand things had gotten. How I didn’t mean any of what I’d said before she was already gone.”

  
“You were upset. Rightfully so.”

  
I blink at him, “It wasn’t a big deal. I made it one.”

  
“Has she ever put her hands on you or you her before?” the question is asked so delicately, as though Clark is trying not to inflame something and it makes something dark and fragile pit in my stomach.

  
“No. But she didn’t hurt me. Not really. A couple of small bruises. It’s nothing I can’t handle. But I was too tired to react properly. We were both strained. She was scared.”

  
“Yes.”

  
“She doesn’t or didn’t at the time, want to lose me.”

  
“Is that what she said?” Clark asks patiently, eyes so blue they look more alien than normal.

  
“Yes. She screamed it at me. And I said something snappish and hurtful back. I can’t remember what. I never remember later. I get too angry and everything sort of hazes over.”

  
“I know,” Clark sighs, “It is complicated. But you do know that you were right to be upset that she hurt you. Even if you were being verbally hurtful. It should never escalate like that. And she knows that. I assume it’s why she left.”

  
I snort, “She left because I went too far. Because she thinks I love Gotham more than her.”

  
Clark lips purse, “Do you?”

  
My jaws clenched tight again, feelings puzzling and tumbling painfully in my chest. “I don’t like that I have to choose. Gotham was first.”

  
“Diana is your wife.”

  
“And I will always love her as one. I have. I’ve been faithful. God, I’m a wreck over this. But I don’t want to be forced into deciding what the fuck I’m supposed to do. I know I made a choice years ago. I know I told Diana that I would do what needed to be done. For us. But I don’t know anymore. I can’t give up Batman. But I can’t live without Diana.”  
“She gave you another option Bruce.”

  
My eyes jerk to Clark’s and I have to stop the curse that wants to spill form my lips. “I couldn’t possibly do that.”

  
“Why not?”

  
“Because I don’t want to live forever.”

  
“But you want to keep being Batman and you also want Diana. How else can both live in the same universe without destroying each other eventually? At least, on the current path you’ve chosen.”

  
“It’s not that easy.”

  
“Isn’t it?”

  
I stare at Clark, hands balled into fists tightly in my lap then struggle past a lump of horrendous nausea.

  
“Could you live your life without Diana? If she never comes home…Or would you rather keep going as Batman and die somewhere in a cold street at four in the morning because your body finally gave out?”

  
“That’s not fair.”

  
“Yes it is. Let’s make it simpler. Would you die for Diana?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Would you do anything for her?”

  
I hesitate, thinking of giving up the mantle then pinch the bridge of my nose. “I—I don’t—Yes. I think I would.”

  
“Then you can do this one thing. You can live immortally and keep both. Keep who you are and keep the love of your life that made you better than you are.”

  
“God you’re poetic.”

  
Clark laughs, “I blame it on Lois. She’s more whimsical than I am. It rubs off on you.”

  
“Yes,” I muse, eyes suddenly burning with tears I want no part of, “I miss my wife.”

  
“Do you?” a voice, delicate and tinged with Greek flutters from across the room and I startle upright, almost toppling the chair in the process. I’d been so caught up with Clark, I hadn’t heard her coming. How long has she been standing there? Did she hear it all? Some of it?

  
Clark gives my shoulder a squeeze, then leaves the room without saying anything else and I stand stiffly by the console, waiting for Diana to approach me. She does softly, feet bare beneath a pair of casual jeans as she strides the length of the room with a hunter’s grace.

  
It’s rare to see her in something so every day and it somehow makes her look more exotic than ever.

  
“Do you miss me Bruce?”

  
I feel my throat slam closed, so I nod simply.

  
“Will you take that off?”

  
I blink at her, realize she means the cowl, and obey silently, resisting the urge to finger-comb my hair. It must be sticking up, but Diana looks as though she’s drinking in my features, her gaze warm and gentle.

  
“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

  
I nod, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  
She frowns, “Bruce, I hurt you. I pushed you. I marked you. That was unforgiveable. No matter the circumstance. These past weeks have given me some time to think on what I did. And I--,” her eyes, so deep and rich settle on mine and I exhale as though she is touching me physically. A yearning wanton sound, that I scarcely conceal. “I’m so sorry.”  
I ignore the little warning that I might not be welcome and close the gap between us quickly and sigh when her nose nestles into my neck. Home. This is home. It’s home where her hair curls around my hands and tickles me nose. It’s home where I can smell the sea on her skin and wind in her hair. It’s home when I greedily take her mouth and find the taste sweet and perfectly in accordance with every memory I have of kissing her.

  
It’s home when it burns my bones to ash and I want to melt into her. I want to disappear and make every bad word we spoke go with it.

  
“I’m so sorry,” I rasp, drawing back to catch my breath as the kiss wants to deepen into more. God, I would take her now. I would forget it all if I could. If she’d let me. If I would.

  
But I need to say more.

  
“No Bruce, I made a mistake. Several. I hurt you and I pushed too hard. I am sorry.”

  
“Diana,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers, letting my eyes fall closed as I suddenly feel the weight of so many nights sleepless and weary. I should be ashamed of the fact that I’m leaning so heavily into my wife, but I’m not. We’ve known each other too many years and shared too much to care. “I want to live forever with you.”

  
“What?” she whispers back to me, breath rushing sweetly over my lips. “What are you saying?”

  
“I want—” my throat snaps closed and I make a strangled noise, aware the moisture in my eyes from earlier is back, “I want to live.”

  
Thumbs brush under my eyes, smearing away tears. Breath catches and turns into softly broken sobs and I realize with a crushing sort of pain that Diana is weeping. I hold her tightly to my chest, soothing her in every way I know how.

  
“I’m sorry,” I whisper over and over, desperate to make things better between us and fearing I have broken something too far.

  
“I—I’ve wanted you to say that,” she cries weakly, voice so small it’s heartbreaking, “for so long.”

  
I swallow thickly, “I know.”

  
“Please tell me it’s really what you want.”

  
I smile weakly, pressing wet kisses to her cheeks. Her tears taste salty and there is nothing more reassuring. I don’t know why I fought it so hard. I don’t know why I was so afraid to say yes to something that shouldn’t have been so frightening. Forever with Diana should only feel natural. Ten years ago, when we’d discussed it, late into the night with gutted out candles flickering over our naked bodies in a pool of silk sheets and laughter, I’d decided I wanted to remain human. Fully human. Fully mortal.

  
I’d been wrong.

  
And Diana has suffered for my decision since. Respected it. Let me have it, though she knew it would hurt to see me age and wither and then die.  
Love burns so brightly in my chest for her even thinking of what she was willing to sacrifice…it chokes the breath out of me.

  
“I want it. I want us. I want to keep living.”

  
Diana’s mouth finds mine, suddenly hungry and helpless a potent swell of desperation rising between us.

  
“Diana,” I manage past the kiss, around those kiss-swollen lips, “take us home.”

  
“Yes,” she sighs, fingers twining in my hair, “Let’s go home.”


End file.
